World On Fire
by runawaywhiterabbit
Summary: "The Hunger Games" from Clove's perspective.
1. Just Win

**Author's Note:**

Hi everyone, thank you so much for clicking on my story. It means a lot. :)

Basically, this is the first Hunger Games book from Clove's perspective. Yes, it is Clato (Clove + Cato). However, it isn't really that much of a romance story. I wanted to portray their relationship in a realistic way, rather than just having them randomly fall in love out of no where, with no relationship development. Also, their relationship won't consume the story. The Hunger Games isn't a love story. Katniss and Peeta's romance is a great, beautiful story, but that is not what the book's mainly about. Katniss isn't some weak, lovestruck girl, and I certainty don't imagine Clove would be, either. So it's gonna be those concepts in the story. The first chapter is in Clove's past, when she's 10. The rest of the chapters will be when she is 15, starting with the reaping. Anyway, sorry, that's enough rambling.

**World On Fire**

_Chapter 1: "Just Win."_

Ever since I was about four years old, it was implanted in my head that I was going to win. My father gave me my first knife at that age and told me that when I sliced the head off my doll with it, he knew I was victor material. Instead of attending one of the district's public schools, I was immediately enrolled into one of the tribute-training academies. I had always been encouraged by parents to win the Hunger Games one day. And I will. Because I want to win more than I want to breathe.

I don't know why. I've always felt like that. I don't remember a year in my early childhood when I didn't look forward to the games – not a year when I didn't watch the reaping and long for the day I'd be old enough to be entered into the lottery or volunteer. And not a year when I wasn't absolutely glued to the screen whenever there was a good battle going on, so I could pick up strategies. My father would lift me up on his bulky, tanned shoulders and push through the crowd in District 2's central square for the best view of the enormous screen.

It wasn't until I was around ten years old that I was allowed to ditch public school and enroll in tribute-training, due to Capitol law, though I have been learning to fight from my father as long as I could remember. Hah. _Training. _I don't know, I just had always found it slightly amusing - with the many laws the Capitol strictly enforces, clearly no one gave a shit about the "don't-train-tributes-beforehand" rule. Academies like the one I attended could completely get around laws by advertising themselves as "self-defense" or "weaponry arts" schools, when everyone knows what they really are. The academy became my second home, or really my only home if I think about it.

Throughout my years I've thought a lot about the Hunger Games – what it means, what I'll have to do, what I stand to lose. But I've never doubted that it's what I want. Children killing other children... it's sounds terrible, yes, but terrible things happen all the time. Terrible things have to happen to for great things to happen. I have seen poverty, suffering, and death already, even in District 2, and it makes me want to escape. To win. And if I do, I know I will rise up and survive in this world on fire.

* * *

I pull back my black hair and style it into my trademark bumpy ponytail. I step into the view of the mirror in my room and look up. I see me. I examine my freckled face and short, scrawny body. I look like a lamb. An innocent, defenseless lamb, or at least the human counterpart. The other kids at the academy won't know what hit them. I smirk at the thought and admire the uniform of the academy I'm wearing. The red, black, and gray detailing on the shoulders, neck, and back, as well as the little '2' in red on my back were designed to resemble what actual tributes wear at the training center. The thought causes me to daydream a little bit before I sharply pull myself back into reality.

_Pull yourself together, Clove. Victors don't day dream. This is your first day at the academy. You will **not** mess anything up._

"My little victor!" My over-enthusiastic mother nearly trips over in her heels as she rushes into my room and begins fussing over the wrinkles in my shirt. She frowns a pink-lip-sticked smile at my hair begins undoing my ponytail. Her baggy, yellowish face wrinkles in concentration. I gently push her away and flop onto my bed, just as my father steps into the room. He smiles approvingly at my get-up and sits down next to me. Without so much as a hello, he launches into tips for beginning my training. Exactly how I should enter – look intimidating, I shouldn't smile. Don't worry about making friends, that's not what I'm here for. I should immediately start working on my triple-knife-throws and start to get comfortable with some other kinds of weapons as well. The list goes on.

I smile and nod, and smile and nod, but I'm not really listening. All I'm thinking about is how much morphling my mother took today and if the academy will have a good selection of knives for me to train with.

* * *

My hand ran over the silky smooth metal of the knives. It feels like home. I grasped the handles of a few and threw one at a target. It flew through the air and cleanly hit the exact center. It just felt like instinct to me.

"Very impressive for a beginning student," said my trainer, a wiry man called Amis. "Clove, do you think you could add a spin to that?"

I replied by tossing my next knife with a flourish. It went the distance while revolving rapidly, then sharply hit the center of the target. I scoffed internally. Still targets were child's play. Well – a _weak_ child.

"Alright," Amis began with a grin. "Let's see if you can hit a farther target. Aim for the 30 yard target – two knives, both with spins. That should be a challenge. Go!"

I grabbed two sharp-looking, medium-length knives and locked in on my target. My elbows and wrists automatically locked into ready position. I took a deep breath. Muscles contract. Hands let go. The first spiraled and hit the center full-on. The second followed and hit the first in the center of its handle.

I relaxed and looked back up at Amis with a grin. He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was to my left, and his mouth slightly was slightly agape. I followed his gaze.

Across the the other side of the room, a boy kicked and punched his padded-up trainer with palpable ferocity. He whirled around whilst taking a knife out his belt and beheaded a dummy, stabbed it, then wheeled around and flipped over his trainer. Immediately after, he lifted up an intimidating-looking weight and threw it a good couple of yards.

_Freaking show-off._ Clearly arrogant. A scowl quickly crossed my face. He's going to be a formidable opponent. I had always thought I would be the best at this academy, because of my knife-throwing skills, but I quickly started to doubt that. The first day, and I already felt like I needed to step up my game.

I sized him up. Very tall, at least a foot taller than me, and blonde. Strong and stocky build with muscular arms. Good strength and agility.

I was so focused that it was a few moments before I realized he had noticed my scowl and was looking back at me. My scowl deepened. I grabbed another knife and threw it at a rapidly moving target, and it hit the center. I turned my back to him and went over with Amis to the archery station, never giving the blonde boy another thought.

* * *

The academy's daily lunch break came around soon. I reluctantly picked out a ration of meat from the school's limited supplies. Even here in district 2, we didn't have much to go around. This was one of the more fortunate districts, where many victors hailed from. Most people here got by okay, but only just got by. Our district doesn't have as much to brag about as we do.

I placed my tray at table in the corner of the room, careful not sit at a table with anyone else sitting there. Not a problem, really, because no one ever sat next to anyone at this school. My father's advice rung again in my mind. _Don't make friends. That's not what you're here for._

No problem. I didn't care about that stuff anyway. I picked at my plate, studying my fork as it punctured little holes into the meat. Just how all the other tributes' dead bodies will look like by the end of my games. I smiled.

I've never really ever had a '_friend_' before, now that I thought about it. I wasn't even totally sure what one was. Back in public school, I was the girl who never talked to anyone. During breaks and my downtime there, all I did was sharpen sticks I found on rocks to a point, and throw them at birds in the courtyard. I had heard many girls squealing in disgust and many boys speculating on how all those birds just dropped dead. I recalled asking my father about 'friends', a year back, as a curious nine-year-old.

"_Someone you can completely trust and be yourself around. Someone you can be silly and have fun with. Someone you care and love and will try to protect at all costs. But someone you can never have, Clove." _

I wouldn't want that anyway. It would never happen.

I jumped at the sound of the tray against the metal table, even though it was relatively quiet. I looked in surprise and saw the muscular blonde boy sitting at my table on the chair farthest away for me. No one sits next to each other here. And there were plenty of empty tables. What was he doing?

He didn't even glance at me as he chopped his ration of steak into small pieces and began eating. He must have been pissed off at a small-framed, petite girl trying to upstage him in training, and decided to try to intimidate me. I sat tensed on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to look up and glare, or saying something threatening. I was ready, with an impressive knowledge of swears and insults on the tip of my tongue if necessary. But he didn't do anything but sit and eat his meal in silence.

Several minutes passed, I grew frustrated and made to go to another table when my stomach growled. I realized how hungry was, so I just sat down and began eating. I was almost finished when I casually looked up. He was looking at me. I searched his gaze, but saw no anger or hatred. He looked almost curious. I looked down at his plate to see it long empty, and looked around to see that we were the only two left in the lunch area. I got up and marched out.

* * *

"Students," Amis announced authoritatively, pacing back in forth in front of the gathering of students. "Or should I say, future tributes. Your first day of the semester has just concluded, the mark of the beginning of your journey. The journey to victory, fame, and riches. And bringing honor to your district. This is what is most important of all. Your victory will improve the lives of the whole district, as well as bring pride to the finest district of Panem. This is something you must keep in mind at all times."

I didn't understand much of what he said. To me, Amis' speech sounded mostly like fancy-sounding rambling. But I made out one thing for sure – that by taking this path, by becoming a tribute, I had the weight of the whole district on my shoulders.

"-so, I am often asked for tips by students. But above all instructions on how to wield knives and swords, the best, most concise piece of advice I can give you is this: _**Just win.**_"

* * *

"I don't want to do this. I don't want to go back to school." I bit my lip nervously as I looked up at my parents, sitting on the chairs opposite me in the bedroom.

"_**Clove?**_" The question the monosyllable posed was obvious.

"Too much. Too hard. I can't do it. Dad, I like throwing knives. I want all the other tributes to die. But there are people at the academy better than me. I won't win."

My father came over to my side and placed his hands carefully on my shoulders.

"Listen to me," he said slowly and sternly. "You will go back to that school everyday and train as much as you can. You won't give up. _Ever. _When the time comes, you will volunteer for the games and win. If you don't, you are a huge disappointment. We don't want that, do we?"

"No."

"Good. Now, is this settled, once and for all?"

At this, I hesitated. "..No." Barely more than a whisper. It felt odd – the first time I had ever defied my father.

"_**Clove!"**_ My father practically radiated with anger. _"You do not contradict me! You will win the Hunger Games and make something out of this family!" _He grabbed a bowl near my bedside and threw it against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces. I gaped and stayed frozen.

"_Answer me, fucking damn it!" _

I couldn't even move, apart from shaking in fear. He pushed me against the wall, his brawny elbow pushing against my throat. I started to gasp for air. He responded by pushing his elbow in further. I could not fight him. I didn't have it in me. I only had barely enough air to gasp one word.

"Mama."

I looked straight at her from across the room, hoping she'd do something, anything. Her eyes met mine momentarily, then looked away, her face indecipherable.

"_Answer me."_

I hastily nodded once, and his elbow dropped. I crawled onto my bed and sat there, panting. My mother left and my father followed her. My eyes were watery and I reached up to brush away a forming tear. My father stopped in the doorway and turned around.

"Don't do that. Crying is for weaklings in outline districts, who get killed first day." And with that he was gone.

I reached to the table by my bedside, opened the drawer and pulled out a knife. I briefly examined it, seeing how the dim light reflected off it. I threw it against the wall with enough force that the wall vibrated.

"Just win, Clove," I murmured to myself.

**Author's Note:**

'K, that's the first chapter. Review if you want to. Please tell me if you would like another chapter.


	2. Reaping Day

**Author's Note:**

Hi everyone, I'm back with another chapter. I really hope it will suffice. The first chapter got a positive response, which was nice, especially because this is my first fic. I'm definitely gonna continue writing this fic, and hopefully I'll be able to update it often. Thanks a lot for reading. I really appreciate anyone who takes the time to read this fic, even if you completely hate it.

This chapter takes place during the reaping day of the 74th Hunger Games. The rest of the story follows the book in chronological order.

**Chapter 2: Reaping Day**

Today I wake with a smile upon my face. I step out of bed with stride in my step, rather than my usual grogginess. I look at the outfit my mother laid out for me on the floor that night. A pretty scarlet blouse and black skirt. Usually I fought against wearing this kind of thing with tooth-and-nail-type ferocity, but today I don't really mind. I quickly slip it on and walk in front of my bedroom mirror. The face of a small, black-haired girl looks back at me with a smirk. The girl's face is slimmer and more defined than it was five years back, but it still has a definite bit of childishness in it. I put my hair down and it smoothly falls to my shoulders like a black curtain. I quickly comb through it with my fingers, look up, and smile. Today, I almost feel pretty.

I can feel the excitement practically pumping through my veins. Just thinking about what lies ahead today makes my heart beat more rapidly. It's reaping day. My year is now, my time has come.

* * *

I join my mother at our table for breakfast. I wolf down my slice of bread and carrot, while she barely touches her roll of bread. Instead, she examines her pipe with a intense look of longing. After a few moments, she gives in and gets up to get some morphling. I give a tiny sigh and a weak smile.

It's like this every day – she'll barely even so much as look at her food and stare at her pipe for almost all of breakfast. Sometimes she talks, more to herself than me. She'll say that this is the day when she will stop, or she won't have any today. It's all in vain. A couple of times, I've hidden her pipe, with the intention of helping her. She'd quickly figure out it had been me and then would yell at me to tell her where it was for so long I would feel like my ears were about to bleed. At that point, my father would intervene by yelling at me that I wasn't helping and to just give my mother what she wanted. So I've given up on that. But this routine has gone on for so long, that I don't feel the least bit of emotion about it anymore. It's just become something I expect.

I look up when I hear familiar heavy footsteps. My father joins me at the table, and immediately launches into his list of reaping day strategies, which he's been telling me at breakfast everyday for the past two weeks.

"Alright, Clove, it's your year to volunteer. You've been waiting for this for years. You ready? You focused? Good. Okay, remember to stand at the front of the fifteen section, so the cameras can easily see you when you volunteer. As soon as the escort even _opens_ his mouth when he picks a female tribute, you volunteer. Got it? We don't want anyone volunteering before you, it'll be painful to have to wait another year. Amis won't be pleased, and neither will I. When they call you up to the stage, try to look as intimidating as possible. Let all the other tributes know that you're one career they do not want to mess with. And then-"

I tune him out as he goes on for some time. All I have to do is look like I'm paying attention, nod, and mumble "mm-hmm" during the intervals provided when he pauses. After several minutes, our television turns by itself. It's a message from the Capitol. _"All District 2 children eligible for the reaping, immediately report to the central square." _With that, I'm all but shoved out the door by my father, my heart pounding.

* * *

The center square of District 2 is enormous – a huge open space vast enough to hold several thousand people. It's walled in on one side by our Justice Building, in front of which is an impressive-looking stage and the biggest screen I've ever seen. The other two sides opposite each other are the sides of factories, where Peacekeeper uniforms and supplies are being manufactured. The remaining side of the square leads off into the streets. The center of that side boasts the doors of the most successful businesses in the district, such as my father's glass-making shop.

I push and shove my way to the front of the fifteen-year-old girls section. I look out upon the sea of faces encompassing the bustling square and I note one major difference between my district and others. When I've seen the the reaping at other districts, ones that are not home to careers, there is definite fear. Tangible fear, reflected in pale, emaciated faces. But I don't see any fear here. Everyone is calm, talking to the people beside them and laughing carelessly. Because if they don't want to be a tribute, and they happen to reaped, well, someone who has trained at an academy will volunteer. Nothing to fear.

Frankly, I don't get people like that. Why would you not want to the opportunity to bring honor to your district? Don't they feel the pride and pleasure I do when other the district's tributes get slaughtered?

My thoughts break off when our escort steps onto the stage and coughs into the microphone. Yonto Whishart has been our district's escort for the past seven years. Being a member of the Capitol, the chubby, wrinkled old man is sporting a bright blue suit, and his skin and hair are died pale lavender. He begins to read from little cards clutched in his hand, the same words as every year. And by the time the Anthem is playing, I'm tense, and my hands, in fists by my sides, are red from squeezing. But I guess my patience has paid off, because my moment comes at last.

"Now it is that exciting time of the year you all know so well!" Yonto exclaims excitedly with enthusiastic hand gestures, as if he's about give out free pastries, rather than send anyone but me to their inevitable deaths. He nears the girl's bowl of names as he speaks. "First of all, the ladies... Let's see... Ter-"

"_**I volunteer!**_" I burst out at the top of my lungs. The crowd is dead silent until Yonto bursts into amazed laughter, like I've just told an enormously funny joke. Oh, Yonto. If Caesar Flickerman ever retires, I don't think the Capitol would need to look to far for a replacement.

"And it looks like we have a volunteer! Come on up here, sweetheart!"

Two Peacekeepers, with crushing grips of iron, grab me and lead me up unto the stage. Before I know it, I'm shaking hands with Yonto Whishart and I'm pushed to the center of the stage, looking out upon an overwhelming ocean of cheering people. My eyes momentarily blur at the strain of taking in so much at once. I realize my face being is broadcast across all of Panem, and I remember the advice my father has been trying to hammer into me for weeks. _Look intimidating –_ I try to give my classic dark smirk, but I'm just too relieved that I end grinning ear-to-ear.

"How brave! What's your name, darling?" A microphone is all but shoved into my face.

"Clove Enicia."

"Clove Enicia, everyone! Let's give a warm round of applause for District 2's female tribute!"

He doesn't need to tell them. Hoards of people are clapping, stamping their feet, and chanting my name. I've just received the greatest honor of my district.

"Settle down, folks! The fun's only just begun! It's time to select our boy tribute." With a flourish, he reaches into the boy's ball of names. His chubby fingers fumble and flutter ungracefully until they're able to take hold of a slip of paper. He pulls it out, unfolds it dramatically, and opens his mouth when a voice calls out.

"_**I volunteer!**_"

Applause starts again, and Yonto beckons the volunteer onstage, going on and on about _**two**_volunteers!_**What**_a surprise, though everyone is well aware it's not. I squint my eyes and crane my neck, but I don't see who it is until he's right up there on stage with me.

It's _him. _The muscular blonde boy from the academy. He towers over me with a cool blue gaze. The same one I've seen glimpses of for the past five years. I've never talked to the guy. He's always seemed to neither like nor hate me, which is confusing and unsettling. And after the incident during lunch that first day, I've always tried to avoid him. Which has worked pretty well, as he is a year ahead of me, apart from inevitable passing-by's in corridors._ Eyes flicker and focus. Brown meets blue. A fraction of a second and it's over. _

I soon learn that his name is Cato. Yonto takes one hand from the both of us and lifts them in the air triumphantly for one last round of applause before we're quickly ushered into the Justice Building. With one loud slam of the closing door, all the noises, blurring colors, and humidity is washed away by the cooled air and the bland color of the walls.

* * *

I study the intricate designs on the carved mahogany walls of my waiting room. I'm twiddling my thumbs and just thinking. This is **my** year at last. I guess this could be a risk, going in so early at only 15, rather than waiting for the 17 to 18 year old minimum many careers abide by. But I'm ready, I'm sure I am. I can feel it in my legs, lean and strong, and in my reflexive, expertly-trained hands, which long for my blades to finally search flesh.

I guess the same thing about age could be said for Cato, who is only one year my senior. Then again, he's 16 years old with the build of a man, tall and stocky, and biceps the width of my waist. The odds would definitely be in his favor. I wouldn't be surprised if we would be the last two in the arena. _But how can I kill him?_

I forget why I'm here in this room at all, until the door opens with an ancient creak and my father steps in, and gives a brief and rare smile. Before he's taken three steps into the room, I've run up to him and wrapped my arms warmly around him. He pats me on the back softly and lets go.

"This is it! You're right. I'm ready. And I know this isn't goodbye, but Dad, I love you."

"I love you too," he says stiffly. His boots shift around on the floor, before he launches into his usual speech with enthusiasm. "So I know I've told you this before, but you have _got_ to-"

I let him talk all he needs too. No interruptions or objections, even though I'd like to. Mercifully, though, it's cut off short by Peacekeepers announcing that time's up and whisking him away. But I still feel sort of incomplete. Like there's something I still need to tell him. But that can wait for later.

The door's open again and it's my mother. She approaches with a soft smile and slow stride. Her glazed eyes suddenly flicker from left to right, as they usually do. Like she sees something I can't. I give her a hug and whisper _"I love you"_ in her ear. I step back and gaze at her wrinkled, yellow face.

Truthfully, I don't have much to say to her. Not much that wouldn't make her feel worse about her situation.

"I love you."

She pulls a tiny cylinder from her skirt pocket. She opens it and I see it's a small pot of yellow paint, her favorite. She reaches out for my hand, turns it over, and paints an eight-pointed star on the back of my hand. I feel my patience waning. I allow her this before sharply jerking back my hand.

"But you love the morphling more, don't you?"

Her brow furrows and she opens her mouth as if to say something, but hastily closes it. She kisses my forehead and then she's gone.

I slide against the wall down to the floor, and cover my face in my hands. I allow myself one tear, before rubbing my watery eyes dry and regaining my bearing.

* * *

Cato and I, surrounded by a battalion of Peacekeepers and a film crew, make our way down the streets nearest the Justice Building, which are blocked off for us. His face is stone still and unreadable while I do my best annoyed-and-bored glare. I look over my shoulder at the Justice Building growing smaller and pause momentarily when I see the people exiting it. A wiry woman with gray-streaked blonde hair, and a small blonde boy and girl. No insane clothes or dyed skin, they obviously aren't Capitol freaks. And with their matching blonde hair and red-rimmed eyes, I know they could only be Cato's family. I take a double take at the boy and girl, who are hugging each other while tears stream down their faces. For a second, I almost feel sorry that I might have to kill Cato.

We are greeted by ear-deafening screams and cheers as we are led up to our tribute train. With a quick look around, I don't see any face I recognize. Combined with the interior of the train I've only dreamed about, it's too much to take in. But when the train door clasps shut and I can hear the faint whirring of the wheels, I can finally breathe out and appreciate my surroundings.

The inside of our train is decked out in an orange-red. From the velvety tablecloths to the wallpaper that is plastered onto the ceiling as well, it's like I'm in a giant tunnel of molten lava. I sit down on cushy red chair in front of a long mahogany table with a feast large enough for an army laid out on it. It's only when I pick up an piece of sweet bread and take a curious bite that I realize how hungry I am.

I'm wolfing down the whole loaf of bread when I hear a stifled laugh. Cato. Oh yeah... he's here too. I look up exasperatedly and he gives me an unapologetic smile.

I'm almost taken aback in surprise. _He_ _freaking smiled. _I don't know why I'm so surprised – maybe I haven't realized until now that aggressive, muscular, intimidating-looking people can smile and look happy, too.

He flops down onto the chair next to me with graceful laziness and extends his hand out to me.

"If we're in this for our district together, we might as well know each other."

I don't take his hand. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs, but keeps his hand outstretched.

"No point being hostile. I'm Cato. You're the girl with the knives, right?"

I turn to look out the window, but something stops me. _I'm going to win this thing anyway_, I think. _Why not? _

I look back up at him, give a quick grin, and shake his hand.

"Nice to meet you too."


	3. Fanfare

**Author's**** Note:** Hey guys, I'm really sorry this chapter took so long. This one was pretty hard for me to write even though it's a bit short – it took plenty of editing and re-writing for me to feel satisfied enough with this chapter to post it. BTW, there are some little things from movie in this chapter as well. I'll see you guys, hopefully sooner, with chapter 4! :)

**___Chapter 3: Fanfare_**

The sun is high in the sky when we see the Capitol at last. It's enormous and breathtaking, and filled with huge, towering buildings. Light hits the silvers and golds embedded in the walls of buildings, and it reflects down to glimmering water. Being a career, it could be embarrassing to be seen practically gaping out of the window like this, but I don't really care at the moment. I can't help it, it's... ___mesmerizing_. I rest my elbows on the edge of the window sill and just ___look_ for a few minutes. When I look over my shoulder, I see Cato gazing out of a window on the opposite side, but a little more calmly than me.

___So he wants us to play the 'friends-who-kill-together' card, _I think. ___That's fine, I can do that. If I can get him to believe it, it'll be that much easier and satisfying to kill him._

I'm to advance towards Cato, my mouth open to call out a greeting, when the compartment door opens sharply. A tall man ducks the ceiling as he enters the compartment. Almost right away, I recognize his face from the games a few years back, from his muscular frame to the furrow wrinkled into his brows that creates a permanent scowl - Brutus. He's followed by a woman with shiny auburn hair and Yonto, who looks like he's about burst from excitement.

"Sorry to interrupt the view, you two," says the woman, who I recognize as a past victor named Enobaria. "When you've won and are a mentor, you'll see this view so many times it's boring."

I cross the floor, my arms folded across my chest and walk right up to them, and Cato lines up by my side.

"Tributes – your mentors, Brutus and Enobaria!" Yonto announces with his arms fanned out behind them in a ta-DA kind of way.

"Save the theatrics for the parade, Yonto," says Brutus in his low monotone.

"Why don't you go update our schedule?" suggests Enobaria, looking simply bored and picking at her manicured nails.

"Why yes, Enobaria!" says Yonto quickly and he bustles out of the train compartment. Cato and I both can't help but snicker. What a push-over.

"What are your names?" Enobaria asks. She looks at me and I can tell she's sizing up her newest trainee. Her perfectly arched eyebrows come together just slightly. My small size must put her off.

"Clove."

"Cato."

"Hmm, we'll skip the formal introductions and get straight to business. I know you two have trained at academies. ___What can you do?_" she asks starkly.

A pause. Enobaria rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue.

"Come on, you're careers, you'll be working together, right?"

___True. _I straighten up my back and look her in the eyes.

"I can throw knives," I offer. "I never miss. I can run fast, and I've had experience with lots of different weapons at the academy. I-"

"I can work with that." Enobaria flashes a quick grin and I get a glimpse of her famous teeth – cosmetically altered and sharpened to lethal points. She takes a small blade out of her pocket, files the tips of her fingers, and calmly tosses it at a small figurine decorating one of the tables. The blade halves it perfectly. "I'm a knife thrower myself. But you'd already know that, wouldn't you?"

"And you, Cato?"

"I can do anything with a sword." He shrugs nonchalantly. Casual, concise, and a lot less ramble-y than me. Maybe I could pick up a few tips from this guy.

"District 2's won twice in the last last five games. The odds are in your favor, you two," says Brutus. He sits down in-front of us and looks into our eyes. I stare back blankly. No one intimidates me. "You'll be favorites for sure. We'll all be counting on one of you to get out of that arena alive for your district. Which one of you that is depends on your ferocity, ruthlessness, and drive. Whoever wants it more will win."

* * *

As we re-watch the recap of the reapings, some light flickers down from the TV screen onto the floor of the train compartment. The light reflected onto the floor changes as the camera cuts now and then. It's the typical round-up of reapings. Districts 1 and 4 have some volunteers that will undoubtedly join our pack. District 1, in particular, has a promising two - a brunette boy with toned arms and a gorgeous blonde girl. As expected, the tributes from the other districts are shocked, scared children with big eyes, some crying and holding onto their mothers. That's apart from a lean brunette girl who volunteers in District 12 in place of her little sister. The little blonde girl is whisked away, screaming and crying in fear while the older girl mounts the stage bravely.

It's fucking ___touching_. I can hear Yonto sigh. This is not good – tributes with sob stories are always favorites. It's my duty to wipe out these types before they can get a real shot at winning. The recap ends and the television flicks off to black.

"The usual pickings," Brutus says. "It's too soon to know for sure, but plenty of them look like weaklings to pick off."

"Sounds like fun. Clove and I have got this," says Cato.

"Glad to hear you two are thinking like a team," Enobaria comments. "It's only a few minutes before our stop. See you two at the parade." With that, Enobaria, Brutus, and Yonto are gone and it's painfully silent.

I feel like I should say something, ___anything,_ to__him.

"So, ___Cato__,_" I say casually, or at least I try to be casual. But I feel awkward. Honestly, since I've never tried to make a friend in my life, I don't really have a good idea of how to talk to people. "I've seen you at the academy. You're not bad."

"Yeah, I wouldn't say you're that bad either, ___Clove,__" _he says, imitating my enunciation of his name.

"Swords are pretty nice. But I like knives and daggers better."

"Why?"

"They draw blood easier."

"Blood." He smiles and I feel more relaxed, now that there's something we both like to talk about. And it makes me think.

"Do you like the idea of killing?"

"Of course," Cato says, as if I'm stupid. "I wouldn't have trained my whole life if I was one of those cowards who flip out over a little bit of blood. You?"

"I do." A nod. "I can't wait to get into the arena."

* * *

Strips of wax are ripped off my legs and arms and tossed into bins. I don't wince once, but glare at my prep team for all they're worth. A green-haired man frowns down at me as he plucks my eyebrows, pulling each hair out one by one, with a tiny, sharp tool that looks like a torture device. It might as well be.

My stark naked body is frosted with greasy-feeling soaps and lotions until my bare skin almost seems to shine. My black hair is pulled behind my head, ferociously combed through and slathered with product. The sheer amount of different artificial scents overwhelms my nose and I can't stop coughing for a few minutes.

A green tunic and skirt are tossed to me. I change into them and get shoved into a room by my prep team, who seem like they can't wait to get rid of me. I'm greeted by what looks like a blob of red on top of the back of someone's body. It turns around and I realize that it's my stylist. That blob is her bright red bob-style haircut and her skin is the palest shade of green. It makes her look ill.

"Miss Clove?" she asks in her shrill Capitol accent. I slowly nod, and she squeals and rushes over to me.

"Hello, I'm your stylist, Sorrel." She extends a green hand, that I take a hold of with two fingers and quickly shake once. She pinches my cheeks and examines my face.

"There now, sweets. Don't be shy. I've been a District 2 stylist for a couple years now, and I've always made the tributes look ___fabulous. _You've seen for yourself, I'm sure."

"Awesome," I say dryly. "What are we doing this year?"

"Well, we're going for a very ___powerful, _fear-inspiring look. We're going to feature your district's industry in a really tasteful manner. Let's just say... you'll see."

Sorrel takes my hand and leads me through the door to another room where my um.. _thrilled_-looking prep team sits. The walls are all reflective, and a long table is propped against one, with boatloads of make-up piled on it. My prep team starts to dab my face with make-up, now and then making off-hand comments on my appearance.

"It's going to be a ___nightmare _to cover all these freckles!"

* * *

"You look like victors." Coming from Enobaria, it's pretty flattering. But all she's done is verbally pat us on the back, and then she leaves. Brutus gives a grunt of approval and a nod and follows her.

"You. Look. ___Amazing._" Sorrel and Cato's stylist squeal, jump up and down a few times, and begin to compliment each other on the costume decisions.

Cato and I wear the pride of our district in the matching bronze armor, polished to a squeaking shine. Little plates, almost shaped like fishes' scales, overlap each other from my neck down. I wear a gladiator-style head piece, the spread wings of a bird coming out out of the sides in gold. It looks like I could just fly away at any moment. I have to admit, that mutant, er... stylist, of mine made me look powerful. Like a warrior.

The other tributes and their stylists are scattered over the enormous room filled with the carriages. The prep teams are in a blur around their tributes – adding a little bit of powder here and smoothing down a stray hair there. My gaze follows Cato's to a boy and girl in plain black jumpsuits, that I recognize from the reaping in 12. I smirk at their bland costumes – another failed attempt at making coal into couture. They should just stop trying.

Their stylist holds up something to that catches the light just so. I tilt my head just a bit, but can't make it out from the distance.

"Come on Clove! It's time to get into the carriages." Cato grasps my wrist tightly and leads me up to the opening of our carriage. I whip my arm away angrily. It stings.

* * *

The gold cuffs on my wrists dazzle in the light as I salute the crowd. The Capitol crowd is a blur of neon colors as the black winged creatures pull us along. From what I can make out, they're waving flaglets and hollering out tribute's names.

I look up at one of the towering screens for a moment and see my own face, stone still and flawless, covered in a thick layer of foundation. I give a dramatic smile to the crowd and hear more noise erupt from that side. The brunette boy and blonde girl from 1 sparkle in front of us in glittery pink tunics. It looks laughable on the boy.

The winged creatures have all almost come to the stop in front of the main stage when gasps burst up in the crowd like bubbles in boiling water. I don't need to even turn around, because it's plastered all over the screens.

The boy and girl from 12 are emblazoned in red-hot fire. Its spins, twists, and dances around the girl's black suit like a gown of fire, while the boy's jumpsuit is accented by a few flames. Energy radiates throughout the crowd and they're going wild, clapping, screaming and punching the air.

I feel my cheeks heat up under the layers of make-up, but I keep my face still as the anthem starts to play.

* * *

"You did well enough out there." Brutus bends down to lift the head piece from my head. I turn to Enobaria expectantly, who shrugs.

"___Well enough. _Did you hear they're calling the girl from 12? Katniss Everdeen – ___the girl on fire__._"

"She won't live long enough to live up to that," says Brutus with a chuckle. He turns his head to the side and the corner of his mouth turns up. "Clove, look – he's got the right idea of what to do."

Cato stands averted towards 12, holding a stare while hardly blinking. I start to stare down the blonde boy besides Katniss, who turns pale at me. Their team notices us and herds the two down the hall, throwing nervous glances over their shoulders.

"The girl's mine," I hiss to Cato.


	4. Tradition

**AN:** Yeah, it's been awhile... It's super embarrassing how long it took to put out this chapter. I promise I'm not abandoning it. I'm really sorry – I had somethings going on in my life and I've only recently recovered from a pretty severe case of writer's block. I 'll really try to get the next chapter up within the week. You probably don't want to hear any more of my excuses, so, without further ado, the chapter:

**Chapter 4: Tradition**

I stand in the middle of a line of shaking red-and-black-clad tributes in front of the knife-throwing workshop. This is going to be fun. And pretty entertaining, from watching the first couple of tributes' pathetic attempts. Most of them, from outline districts, could hardly hold the knife the right way, let alone throw it. I have to hold in the urge to call out a sarcastic comment a couple of times - I don't know what kind of angle Enobaria wants me to play yet.

By the time it's turn, my fingers are itching for the blades. I take three of them and face the knife-throwing targets – simple charts of the human body, only about twenty feet away, with lit-up glowing circles marking the vital organs. You hit those, and your victim's good as dead. I focus and lock in on my targets, my head bent into a dark stare of concentration.

The second after the circles light up, before I even really register it, I've fired two quick no-spin throws – one on the far left target, the other on the far right. They both hit the exact center of the heart with frightening accuracy. I turn around, quickly turn back, and with a cross-body throw, the last knife rockets into the center target's heart with staggering force.

I purposely push through other tributes as I leave. They lean away from me, pupils wide. A dark smirk covers my face as I realize that I've established myself as a dangerous career, if case any of them were still doubting me because of my size.

I head over to the spear section. The male tribute from District 1, (Marvel, I think), practically owns this section. I'm picking up a few tips from him in between watching the others finish up the knife-throwing.

_It's cool to see "brutal, bloody" Cato has some weak points,_ I think as I watch him throw knives. He's alright, I mean he was actually able to hit somewhere on the circles and have the knife stick there, and that's more than I can say for most of the tributes. But on his third try, he hurls it with too much force and not enough control. It hits way above the circles, then falls down to the ground. I hold in a chuckle as he seethes with anger and stomps over to the spears.

Cato angrily hurls just about every spear in his vicinty, and even Marvel seems a bit off-put. Cato seems to have calmed down when he turns to me. I'm holding the last spear left on the rack, sharpening it, and watching the spear instructor practically trip over his own feet trying to retrieve all the spears.

"Hey, _kid._"

"Don't call me kid. My name is Clove," I hiss out, a small wave of anger rushing over me. He shrugs, obviously not intimidated by me.

"Whatever, just give me that spear." I don't.

"Nice knife-throwing," I comment, trying to get a rise out of him. His brows furrow and his lips are pressed together in a thin line.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," I say offhandedly, as if I'm commenting on the weather. I drag the spear's blade across the sharpening stone a few more times, even though it's probably already sharp enough to drill to the center of the earth. "But your aim was off, and the knife sticks up at an upward angle because you're too close to the target. Oh, and on that last one, you put too much force into it. And keep doing that unhelpful wrist-flicking thing at the end of your throws if you never want to be in control of the knife. Here's your damn spear."

I thrust the spear into his hand, flash a maniacal smile, and walk off.

* * *

I'm starting to think – I should stop being a smart ass to Cato. It might backfire on me in the arena. I don't want to be his enemy. I hate to admit it, but he's the most dangerous and feared tribute. So I stick mostly with Marvel and Glimmer this training day, so hopefully Cato can forget about it by tomorrow. And I've come to the conclusion that all babies in district 1 must have to go through a ceremonial-being-dropped-on-their-heads or something. Their name choices are kind of an indication – I mean, _Glimmer?_ Are you fucking kidding me? But that's beside the point. Marvel doesn't seem to be the sharpest spear on the rack, but he can sure throw one. The blonde bimbo Glimmer doesn't seem to have a weapon of choice other than her looks. But I like them, because I know I'll be able to kill both of them when the time comes.

From the archery section, where Glimmer fires off a straight but off-center arrows, I look over and the boy and girl from 12 catch my eye. At the camouflage section, the blonde boy is showing Katniss something he's painted onto his arm – a imitation of tree bark. The boy's looking at her so tenderly that I want to puke. I can't wait to get rid of them. Marvel looks at me questioningly when I scoff and I nod towards the pair from 12.

"They might as well enjoy art class before they die in a few days, hmm?"

* * *

Cato slams four tables together with a grunt. Me, Marvel, Glimmer, and the boy and girl tributes from 4 sit around the tables and eat together in near silence. Apart from the clink of forks, you could probably hear a pin drop in here with how much all the tributes are talking to each other. And I guess I get that. What _do_ you say to people you know will try to kill you? I poke my fork around my bowl of weird leafy green things. It looks and tastes gross, but Brutus told me to eat this kind of stuff, so I do. I take a couple forced bites before looking up and finding Cato's cool blue gaze. I stare back intensely, hoping he'll flinch away or go back to his food. He doesn't.

"What?" I mumble softly. Softly, yet dumbly.

I hear a laugh coming from behind me, echoing throughout the silent cafeteria. We all turn around to see the girl from 12. _Fake, _I could hear it in her voice. I frown and before going back to picking at my bowl. What is she playing at?

* * *

With an ungraceful flop, my I fall down onto my ridiculously-soft bed. It smells... _clean. _As comforting and fresh as a new set of knives. I stare up at the ceiling and try to recover from the long-ass day of training. My arms and hands hurt from the sheer amount of knives they've thrown. No, scratch that, it's been like that just about everyday of my life. I hold in a wince of pain before realizing that there's no one around to hear it.

I reach for a remote on a table beside, and examine the foreign object. I press a red circle on it and look up with a gasp as the plain gray ceiling above me melds into a fake sky – bright blue dotted with plush white clouds. I let the remote drop from my hand and it clatters down somewhere on the shiny floor. I'm really only used to seeing the gray linoleum ceiling of the training academy, so this is kind of cool to look at. Even outside of training, in district 2, the sky isn't much to look at. It's mostly gray and foggy – just _bleh_. But this is.. nice, I guess. _Shut the fuck up,_ I internally groan. _I sound like such a sap._

I stare straight up with an unmoving gaze, and after awhile, my vision glazes over into a periwinkle-blue blur. My eyelids flutter before slowly closing, and I'm slipping into slee-

_Thawp._ My body is pulled into an upright position by an iron grip. My eyes go wide in shock, rage pulses through my veins, and instinctively my main knife hand goes up to hold my knife up against my attacker's throat. Then I realize that I'm not even holding a knife and my _attacker, _of all people, is Cato. I look up to see his bright blue eyes slightly widen before they look down to see my imaginary knife. He lets out a rumbling laugh and lets me go. Cato backward-walks away from me, hands up in mock defense.

"Woah, you got me, knife girl."

I mutter a colorful sentence under my breath and rub my eyes. I'm too sleepy to kick his ass today. And oh yeah, I'm supposed to be fighting such urges anyway.

"What was that?" I grumble, the nicest thing I can think of to say.

Once Cato realizes that I'm not going to threaten him with anymore imaginary knives, he sits down, a careful distance from me, on the edge of my bed.

"You didn't want to miss the tribute-hunt, did you?"

"The _what?_" He rolls his eyes.

"It's a tradition for the career pack. The night after the first day of training, all of the careers gather for a night of scaring the shit out of any tributes on the roof or in the training center after hours. Brutus told me that there's always some little shit who actually thinks they have a chance of winning."

"Sounds fun." This actually does sound like my kind of party.

"So hurry up!" I'm up and out of the door before his outstretched hand can grab my wrist.

I grab a slice of the Capitol sweet bread I've come to love as we pass by our level's grand dining table. Brutus is there, he looks up from his glass and gives a rare smile.

"I remember my tribute-hunt from back when. You two have fun, it's good practice for the arena."

"How exactly are we going to meet up with 1 and 4?" I murmur between bites.

"Please – we're _careers_. We do whatever the hell we want."

"But how-" Another eye-roll.

"They'll be on the roof."

* * *

The roof of the training center building is enormous – right next sides of huge, looming Capitol buildings, and hundreds of flickering lights from buildings, all around as far as you can see. You might feel small. Not me. Cato and I make our way past dozens of weird potted plants decorating the roof and some clumps of irritatingly high-pitched wind-chimes.

I pause for just a second when I see the the silhouettes of four people near the edge of the rooftop, towering over a small figure that's crouched defensively. As we get closer the smaller figure hastily runs away. I give a curt nod to Marvel, Glimmer, and the district 4 tributes, Tahlia and Azal.

"Sorry, but we started without you, Cato." says Glimmer. "That little thing was up here crying like a little bitch. Couldn't resist." He gives a grunt of recognition.

"Hey!" Marvel points out a silhouette of someone. A little pitter-patter of footsteps stops. They've just entered the rooftop, seen us, and backed the hell away.

"Hey, where you going?" Tahlia yells. Whoops and happy yells fill the air as we start running.

* * *

I can hear the slashes of the sword against the dummy as we near the entrance of the training room, and grins spread across all of our faces. We had chased a few more tributes and dumped a few potted plants on mentors' heads from the rooftop, who were walking on the Capitol streets. I couldn't stop laughing as they momentarily flipped the fuck out before the force field rocketed the plant back up the rooftop and we'd duck.

It's exhilarating. I might even say that I had a good time. And it's clear we have another little fucker to torment. I look over my shoulder, checking if anyone can see us. Instead I lock eyes with Cato, who's grinning ear-to-ear. And for once, I can't help but actually truly smile back at him.

I lean around the gray corner of the archway framing the training center and freeze. It feels like every single nerve in my body is standing on end. It's him_._ Is it him? It can't be him. Tall, tanned skin, broad shoulders, black closely-cropped hair, and low husky sounding in the occasional grunt as he swings the sword around. My eyes flash to the little white numberon the sleeve of his shirt, and I can literally feel my pupils contract as I breathe softly in relief. It's just another tribute. It's not him.

I turn around the rest of the pack, shoulders relaxed and face stoic as I motion for them to follow me. We file in and I grab a small knife off a rack and twirl it in between my fingers as we approach. The boy whips around at the noise, sword poised crookedly in defense. Cato laughs.

The boy's eyes are flared wide open and it's like I can almost smell the fear off him. It sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through my mind. It tilt my head just so at him, smiling almost sweetly with my eyes flashing wordless threats.

He's had enough. He makes to put away the sword and tries to walk away calmly, but his rigid shoulders give him away.

"We're going to kill you." I hiss.


End file.
